


She did look back, and I love her for that

by Waterloo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient History, Angst, DEFFO WILL BE UPDATED AND FINISHED, Friends to Lovers, I'M JUST STRESSED AND AT UNI AND STRESSED, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kissing, Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pseudo-History, RIP, Slow Burn, and maybe some actual burning, slowwww
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-01 16:45:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19181830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waterloo/pseuds/Waterloo
Summary: 1666, London, After the FireOh fuck, he thinks. Oh, fuck. He's in love(A not-so-nice but entirely accurate account of two immortal beings throughout the millenia, replete with feelings)





	1. Of Fire, Yeast, and Shakespeare

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so. I love good omens. I read it about 6 years ago, and it's like a big thing in my house. Mainly because Terry pratchett is a BIG THING in our house. The miniseries absolutely rekindled my love. And now it's burning. Burning like the fire of London. So anyway. I won't promise consistent updates, but I will promise completion and I'm on exam leave so I have a lot of time.  
> Thanks to anyone reading :)  
> (title is from the Kurt Vonnegut quote below

 

**And Lot's wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human. So she was turned into a pillar of salt. So it goes.**

**-Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five**

 

* * *

 

**London, 1666**

 

"Oh for Go- for He- oh for London's sake Crowley, _again?"_

 

Crowley, who was trying very hard to quash any un-demon like guilt he might be feeling, stared at the burning city and thought _fuck_.

 

"To be fair" he hedged "I hadn't thought that one oven could cause so much…. Conflagration"

 

The angel gaped at him, stupid ethereal eyes wide with disbelief. "Crowley, all the buildings are made of _wood_ "

 

"Well maybe now they'll learn to stop putting them so close together! You know, that would probably help with all this plague business too. You know Angel, if you really think about it, I did them a favour"

 

Aziraphale, for not the first time in the 5000-and-change years they'd known each other, looked as if he was about to cry out of pure angelic frustration.

 

Crowley winced. "Er. My bad?"

 

The fire burned for five days. Aziraphale wouldn't speak to Crowley about anything but business for a decade.

 

It isn't the first time that Aziraphale has been mad at him. As the angel is so fond of saying, they are hereditary enemies. It's to be expected. But it's the first time in all of their strange Arrangement that he's been able to place a name to the way it makes him feel.

 

Just about the same time as Samuel Pepys is digging up his diary and wheel of cheese from his smouldering back garden, Crowley is in a singed tavern across the city trying to drown is stupid, not at all properly occult, probably demonically atypical, ineffable _heart ache._

 

This is The Beginning. Well. It's one of them at least.

  
  


**9:14 Am, Sunday the 21st of October, 4004 Bc**

 

It is roughly one minute into the creation of the universe when God begins to wonder if this wasn't all going to be a bit of a cock up.

 

You see, and they've told this bit a hell of a lot over the millennia, in The Beginning there was nothing.

And 30 seconds after all of that lovely, uncomplicated nothing, there were already things God hadn't planned for. Or wanted. Or known could actually happen.

 

It is a common conception that love is some sort of primordial, ephemeral force. This is incorrect. Love is a sort of bacteria. Like yeast. In fact, it's the oldest bacteria in the universe and God had _definitely not put it there._

 

But here She is, just after all of Her grand Let There Be Light business, already baffled about what all of this Her-forsaken love stuff is doing, crawling all over Her planet.

Oh, She thinks, oh no Lucifer is going to be _so_ smug about this.

There's a well known human course of action. When something happens that you weren't planning, but it doesn't seem like it's doing too much harm, pretend like you did it on purpose. This isn't really human in origin. God has been doing it literally since the beginning of time.

So this is The Beginning. Let there be light. Let there be warm, damp places for bacteria to multiply. Let there be turtles in the ocean and mammoths on the land. Let there be love. Let there be love because actually, God doesn't know if She could get it to stop being there even if She asked really, really nicely.

That's the problem with yeast. It doesn't take enough notice of its surroundings to develop any kind of healthy sense of Divine Terror.

  


**Harappa, Indus Valley, 2400 Bc**

 

"Well" Aziraphale says in his silly plummy accent "They really have got quite a nice set up going on here, don't they?"

 

"Hm" Crowley says, trying not to move too much from his perfect position in the sun. (Once you've been cold blooded for a while, the urge to soak up warmth never really leaves you)

 

"All this use of water. How marvelous of them. And they've invented this new fangled metallurgy. The things they're doing with bronze these days, my dear. Really! Quite astounding"

 

"Hm-m. Metal.. urgy.. lurgy. Lovely" Crowley mumbled, blissed out on ultra violet rays.

"Much better than that first city over on the Nile I suppose. What have the Greeks taken to calling it? Crocodilopolis. My word. You create a universe, get all excited to see what your children will make of it, and suddenly they're building a city and it's all hail _Sobek_ , all mighty crocodile"

Crowley hazilily thought that he'd quite liked Crocodilopolis. Good drink at hand.

Aziraphale's brow crinkled "Though of course--they are doing rather a lot of idol worship. I suppose that can't be good. Do you think She-"

"Oh for Devil's sake, Angel" Crowley snapped, finally pulling himself out of his sunbathing "Do you always have to bring up shop talk? You were just saying how much you _like_ the place"

Aziraphale blushed "Well yes, Crawly. It is all rather marvelous. Mohenjo-daro is positively _breath_ taking and you should see this nice little trade set up they have going with those fellows over in Mesopotamia."

"But?" The ex-snake prompted, sensing the angels hesitation. He supposed this counted as tempting. In a sort of round about way.

Aziraphale sent him a sickeningly grateful look "But I just worry, Crawly. What if we did really get it wrong?"

"Oh Lord of Darkness, not this again. And I told you" he sniffed "Its Crowley now"

"Yes, yes. I know" The angel fretted "But I can't help thinking what with all our - fraternizing- maybe we are really being more of a hindrance than--we'll not in your case but in mine- than a _help_ . You know, I heard in Egypt they've started out on this idea of scales and feathers and- Crawly- sorry- _Crowley_ , I really don't think that's what the Almighty had in mind when She sent me down here"

"Oh I've seen quite a few demons with scales and feathers. Nasty creatures. Seems like something our side would make up, that does" He frowned "I thought she just sent you down to guard that old gate?"

Aziraphale looked at him reproachfully, blue eyes squinting "Well. Yes. But it was rather an _important_ gate"

"And asss I recall, Angel, she gave you a flaming ssssword to do it with. Now. I wonder where that old thing got to? Care to remind me"

"Oh, you cruel old demon" Aziraphale pouted "And you know that's exactly why I'm worried. Well. What if we're mucking up Her divine plan with everything we're doing?"

"Oh. So it's devine and ineffable now?" Crowley snarled "Angel, stop thinking so much. The way I see it, if you care so much about doing the right thing maybe you should stop having these little meetings with me. I am a demon, as you so kindly love to recall"

Aziraphale looked stricken. "Oh my dear boy, _no_. Who else remembers when there were only two humans on this whole earth? No, you really are my only f-"

The angel cut himself off, looking shiftily up to the Heavens. Crowley's weak human stomach did something funny. Really, these corporations were liabilities.

"What was that you were saying Angel?" He said slyly. Well. He _was_ a demon after all.

Aziraphale scoffed, rolling his eyes and then looking at Crowley with a put upon expression. "Oh fine, you demon. You're my friend"

Crowley had expected to gloat. Maybe tease. Perhaps create a galling and scathingly mocking dance. Instead he felt something stick in his throat. He looked away, away from the clay city with its elaborate water systems, away from the stupid angel, out across at the stretching dessert.

He stood up instead of responding. "I heard they've got a goat going on the spit over at Shifty Al's. Come on Angel, I know how you get about your food"

  


**Jerusalem, 33 AD**

It's a couple months post all of that business with poor _Jeshua_ , and Crowley is starting to feel claustrophobic in this city.

 

And well, _really_. With the state of politics and religion these days, who wouldn't. He can hardly move a meter in his favourite tavern without hearing some fellow or another discussing the son of God. With all of the supposed resurrection and what not, who could blame them. Personally, Crowley had gone on a bit of a bender with a beautiful man called Zachariah  after having to suffer through the actual crucifixion. He'd been happily nursing a hangover in a dark room when the empty grave fiasco had gone down.

 

But the angel had been there for the whole thing. That's another thing wrong with this city. Aziraphale had this air about him ever since wozisname had kindly ascended back up to see is Mum. Like. Well. Like he was _unsure_.

 

And, of course, Crowley was meant to want the angel to be unsure. That was the point. _Of course_.

 

It was just, he knew where he stood with this angel. They knew where they stood with each other. Far apart, most of the time. And then quite close and usually with a flagon of wine and a mutual understanding not to bring up the whole epistemic business. Or the eschatological business for that matter.

 

So if the Angel went about doing silly things like asking questions, just like Crowley had, and maybe he started asking questions to himself, about things you couldn't ask questions about without expecting _repercussions-_

 

Well. Crowley didn't want to go about having to spend 4000 more years building up a good colleague  rapport just because the Angel had gotten all bothered about one crucifixion of one measly Son of God. Now really.

 

It wasn't even as though the Angel was the type to question these things. For being so incredibly smart about some things, the Angel usually took a block headed approach to most things. If Crowley wanted to get personal, he'd probably call him willfully accepting.

 

Probably because he'd seen what came from asking questions. Not that Crowley could blame him for that either. The constant motherhenning from down below had been grating on Crowley for 3 millennia.

 

So the city was getting far too fanatical, and his drinking sessions with Aziraphale had started to take on the tinge of a philosophical debate, and Zacharaiah had started to get a little bit too clingy, and so really what was a demon to do but make a swift exit out of town.

 

He didn't say bye to the Angel. Out of spite for his ethereal knack for screwing up a good thing.

  


**Rome, 41 Ad**

 

He'd gotten bored less than a year in. He'd accepted his boredom after five years of denial and bachannals and whispering into senators ears. Who knew even the bustling heart of an empire could get boring if you were the only immortal around to enjoy it?

 

It had been a relief, of a sort, when Aziraphale had eventually shown up across a dusty public house. They went for dinner.

  


**Brittania, 410 Ad**

 

"Well that was rather more long lived than I'd expected, to be honest" Aziraphale commented, still staring out at the countryside from the hill they were on. They were somewhere outside of Gloucester.

 

That had been one of Crowley more enjoyable endeavours, inventing all of these ridiculous-to-pronounce places. And the residents of Brittania did seem so ready to accept them. That was probably the Celt in them. All those vowels.

 

"Yes. Farewell old Provincia Brittania" Crowley dismissed, unbothered. He'd just been telling the angel all about his opinion that Roman rule of Britain was really coming to an end, what with the death of this third Constantine fellow.

"Ah well" Aziraphale said, finally undoing the cloth package he'd carried to reveal a round of cheese with a red rind and a wedge of good bakers bread "History goes ever onward, I suppose"

 

Crowley wondered, not for the first time, if Aziraphale might just go on not noticing a burning building around him as long as he had a good meal in front of him. Or any meal at all. He was truly _awe_ some. In the original sense of the word.

 

"Truly. And I don't suppose the peasants are going to go on changing anything, regardless of who's ruling them"

 

Aziraphale snorted "Half of them probably still think it's Magnus Maximus in charge. What difference does it make to them? They have farms to run, never mind a city halfway across the world"

 

The angel might have seemed condescending, if Crowley wasn't fully aware that Aziraphale found sheep farming far more amazing than any of the complex politics and betrayals they could think up over in Rome. He probably thought it counted in favour of your Immortal Soul, to go on living your life and not take any notice of grimy political changes. Crowley, who had invented politics, could see his point.

 

Crowley twitched a bit, and settled onto his face his best _'I don't care'_ expression "Yes. Well I suppose you'll be back off to Rome then. Or maybe you'll go see how the Barbarian invasions are going in Gaul?"

 

Aziraphale had come to the damp island off the continent at the beginning of the second century to, as he put it, "see what all the fuss was". He hadn't come back. Half a century later, Crowley had followed him. Well. Happened to end up in the same place. Absolutely no following involved. And absolutely no missing of absolutely any angels by absolutely _any_ demons. Ahem.

 

Aziraphale fumbled with his cheese, turning scandalised blue eyes in the demon. It was one of the few cloudless days the island ever saw. The sky made the colour of Aziraphale's eyes shimmer. Like maybe the Angel was trying to _compete_ with the anamolous beauty of an English summer day. "My dear" he exclaimed "Why ever so?"

 

"Well" Crowley said, aiming for blasé "Not that I care either way, but I thought you'd only come here to goggle at the locals as a good Roman Citizen"

 

Aziraphale sniffed, dusting invisible crumbs off of his silk tunic. His hat looked preposterous. Everything about the angel was preposterous, in Crowley's eyes. "I rather _like_ the locals"

 

"Right" Crowley said.

 

Aziraphale watched a sparrow spinning in the sky "I think the locals have got quite a few things down rather nicely"

 

"Right" Crowley said, again.

 

Aziraphale squinted, lifting a hand to his brow as if to shield from the sun "In fact....if I was going to be a local from anywhere. Maybe I'd. Be a local from.. _here_ "

 

Crowley coughed " _Right_ "

 

There was a pause. Neither of them speaking, or looking in each others direction at all. Crowley wasn't really sure what had happened. He'd only meant to ascertain the angels future locale. Not because he _cared_.

 

Oh. Rats.

 

"Well" Crowley said, voice strained "That's.... Good"

 

Aziraphale's neck snapped over to look at him, blonde eyebrows raised in his stupid angelic face "Is it?" he asked, sounding rather hopeful.

 

Crowley huffed, standing up so that he could do a proper dramatic stalk off down the grassy hillock "Well I suppose its good to know you'll be around for me to thwart far more easily."

 

The angel laughed "I thought I was supposed to do the thwarting!" he yelled after Crawly, voice carried on the stupid Brittania breeze.

  


**1149 Ad, Somewhere in the South of England**

 

They were in a field. Somehow, it had seemed easier than finding a pub neutral enough that they could have a conversation without one of them being challenged to a brawl for either Matilda or Stephen's honour.

 

"D'you even know whosss landsss we're currently inb- imbib- emb-- Currently drinking wine on?" Crowley said, hiccoughing through his sentence.

 

Aziraphale, who was rather more than three sheets to the wind, turned to a wheat stalk next to his face "Who do you belong do then, li'l- Little _Stalky_ "

 

"Stalky?" Crowley exclaimed, outraged "Don't go about, naming, naming _wheat_ "

 

"All creatures grey and small" The Angel said wisely.

 

Crowley frowned, trying to think clearly through the fog of red wine "That's not right"

 

"Grown and small?" the Angel tried again "Gregory and small? Something small anyway"

 

The demon snorted, flopping onto his back so he could stare at the stars in the sky.

 

"Hey" he said in drunken casternation "I think sssomeones moved that bloody--the blinky star. Big bugger. Northern"

 

Aziraphale flopped down next to him, with the sort of unhurried movements that Crowley didn't think were really appropriate for the magnitude of one of the bloody stars going missing. Crowley had plans to start spreading some fun lies that all of the stars were actually dead, like that thing he'd done with the dinosaur bones. But the stars were all definitely meant to keep being there.

 

Aziraphale gave a small belch, settling in like it was a goose feather mattress instead of turned up clods of earth, with dead wheat stalks teased over it with a result reminiscent of a balding man clinging to his comb over. He blinked at the sky, then squinted.

 

"Crowley, me old- snake. 's there" Aziraphale pointed to a part of the sky that Crowley definitely hadn't been looking at.

 

Crowley gasped "It _moved_. That traitorous bastard."

 

The angel laughed. Crowley couldn't tell if he was mocking him or not. He found he couldn't really summon any effort to care. It was strangely nice, lying shoulder to shoulder with the angel in a field.

 

After a while, the angel shifted slightly beside him. "My dear" he said.

 

"Yes Angel?" he hiccuped again.

 

"It's strange" the angel said whimsically "You rather are my best friend. Funny isn't it? "

There are axioms that are meant to remain unspoken. Crowley is certain of this fact. The way he is certain that humans discovering germs will be very funny for him, or that Gabriel is a massive prick. Truisms. Maxims and aphorisms and adages and things you just don't say because if you say them they'll be real, and if they're real you'll have to face them. So it's bad form, really. Imagine going about acknowledging unspoken truths in a field in the middle of a succession crisis like its nothing.   
So that's why Crowley did what he did when faced with Aziraphale's well meant but entirely baffling statement.

 

Crowley went still. Something inside him trembled. He ignored the angel, pretending he hadn't heard him and instead went on blathering about all of the horrible gory stories he'd helped the Greeks make up about the constellations. He made an excuse, soon, to sober up and bugger off.

 

He went off to the nearest village and started a fight with a blacksmith for Empress Matilda's providence, even though he was technically a soldier for King Stephen.

  


**1381, London**

 

Crowley has a thing for rebellions. Of course, he'd taken part in the first.

 

He hadn't really had a lot of sociopolitical opinions informing his fall from grace. He'd liked the way Lucifer had spoken; all _'mother is a tyrant'_ this and _'new, better kingdoms'_ that. All in pretty, angelic language. Crowley hadn't really had an opinion on God's rule. He'd just followed the crowd. He hadn't really realised that he was watching the creation of the occult.

 

But throughout the years Crowley has seen many rebellions. Revolts. Uprising. He's taken rather a shine to them, and doesn't mind helping out here and there with a temptation to speed things along. There'd been that Sumerian uprising in the 2nd century Bc, replacing one king with another as the people were want to do. As if it ever made a difference. The Babylonian's revolt against Assyria. Good times. Of course, the Roman Republic had started by way of revolution. Over that poor Lucretia...

 

But this one was shaping up to be one of Crowley's favourites. Wat Tyler was a truly tenacious fellow. Good in bed too. The Peasants' Revolt wasn't only fun for Crowley, it actually had a point.

 

The fourteenth century hadn't been good for anyone. First off, it had been bloody cold. Crowley had gotten used to a hotter climate over the last couple hundred years, and now you could hardly leave your castle without a fur lined cloak. There'd been that annoying famine, and hadn't Aziraphale been grouchy that year, too prideful to miracle himself some of his beloved food. And of course, the _piece de resistance_ of this gloomy century, the Plague. Crowley tries to be chipper about most things. And in accordance with his demonic ways, he tries to seem like he doesn't care. But even he hadn't come out unaffected from that debacle.

 

So Mister Tyler and his dashingly revolutionary peasants had marched on London to demand the end of serfdom. The boy King cowered in a tower, the people were finally thinking for themselves, and Crowley thought things were finally beginning--

 

"Crowley, what in _God's name_ have you done this time?"

 

Crowley turned around slowly, trying not to wince. Aziraphale stood behind him, radiating the sort of glower that should have inspired in Crowley divine terror. That is if he didn't also have his hands on his hips as if he was Crowley mum come to yell at him for leaving the dishes dirty.

 

"Oh now, Angel" Crowley drawled, as Aziraphale steamed "I thought you'd like this one. I'm doing something for the people"

 

Aziraphale scoffed, rolling his eyes literally heavenward "My dear, the day you do something for anyone but yourself I'll eat my hat. You are a _demon_ "

 

And well. That one stung. It was true that Crowley was anatomically a demon. It was also true that he tended to do a lot of things out of pure enjoyment for the chaos that ensued. But he wasn't _evil_. No matter what divine dichotomy the angel was so bothered about believing in.

 

Crowley turned away angrily, storming out of the alley he'd been watching the chaos from in Mile End and marching onto another crowded London street. He didn't have to just stand there, listening to the angel smear his go- Well. His _mediocre and all round morally average_ name.

 

Crowley could hear the Angel following him, and could sense his bemusement. "And where are you going now? Going to tempt one of your minions into cutting the poor King Richard's throat? Crowley, he's _twelve--_ "

 

  Crowley stopped abruptly, spinning around. He hissed at the angel, involuntarily. "He isn't innocent, Aziraphale. He lets his people starve, forces them to--"

 

Aziraphale looked ready to stomp his foot "Stop! Stop acting like you care about the people. We both know why your doing this"

 

"Oh" Crowley hissed, in a voice that spoke of every moment boiling up right before an explosion "do we?"

 

The angel's anger seemed to tinge now, slightly, with embarrassment. "Well, not that there's anything wrong with that sort of thing. God's quite clear on that, even if Leviticus did get everyone about het up, but you can't just go about--"

 

Crowley scrunched his eyes "Angel, what on earth are you blabbering on about?"

 

"You can't just go about performing wishes for your _boyfriend_ !" Aziraphale exploded "You can't tempt a country into revolt just because your boy of this _century_ has- has - has fanciful ideas about society!"

 

Crowley gaped at the angel. Truly. He'd expected a lot of things from the angel. He'd always been such a damnable imperialist after all. All of that divine rule bullshit that the monarchy pedalled, probably. But this?

 

"Aziraphale" Crowley said through gritted teeth "This is ridiculous"

 

"Is it?" the angel said, and there was something in his eyes that was unreadable to Crowley. Something that blazed. "It wouldn't be the first time. Really Crowley, you needn't be so _promiscuous_ "

 

That was the icing on the cake, right there. Crowley snarled "I hope all your books get mould you insane Angel. Ssstay out of my business"

 

Before Aziraphale could respond, Crowley stormed away, using just a little bit of his demonic wishing so that he was half way across London instead of with the infuriating angel.

 

(Two days later, Wat Tyler was killed in Somerset and Richard went back on everything he promised. But there never was anymore serfdom in England after that.

He hadn't been in love with the revolutionary or anything. But he still snapped at Aziraphale rather a lot more, well into the fifteenth century)

  


**Florence, 1504**

 

"Angel" Crowley sighed, tapping Aziraphale on the back of his head reproachfully "You said you had something interesting to show me"

Aziraphale beamed at him. He'd decided just last week that in thanks for the favour Crowley had done for him with that miracle in the east end, he was going to miracle then to Florence. Apparently, he had something beautiful to show him.

 

Knowing Aziraphale, he was most likely going to present him with a dusty book. And knowing Aziraphale, they would probably end up standing around it for hours as Aziraphale oohed and ahhed over its binding or whatever. _An_ gels.

 

"Yes, yes dear fellow. It is quite marvelous. You see, _well_. Now you do remember David don't you?" The blonde babbled happily, pulling Crowley down another sunny cream street. All of the streets in Florence seemed to be some variation on sunny and or cream.

 

Crowley squinted in contemplation. There had been a lot of David's. There had been a lot of humans over the millennia, and they got repetitive with their naming conventions after a while "Which David?"

 

"Oh, you know. David-David. King David? David and Goliath?"

 

"Oh" Crowley said in realisation "You mean Jonathan's David"

 

Aziraphale turned his face to bestow on the from another dazzling beam "Yes they did have a rather special relationship didn't they. Rather brilliant, considering the circumstances they were in"

 

Crowley nodded, humming distractedly. He'd been rather close to Jonathan. He'd given him quite a lot of advice when it came to his relationship with David. Though Crowley for the eternal life of him couldn't figure out where he'd suddenly become the patron Saint of homosexual relationship advice. It had come to him naturally somehow.

 

"What are you asking about David?" Crowley finally remembered to ask.

 

Aziraphale actually giggled. "Ah! Now that would be telling"

 

Crowley managed not to point out that yes, _yes it would be_ and wasn't that usually the point. Aziraphale was a frustrating person to know.

 

They took a few more turns down sunny yellow streets, Aziraphale nattering on non stop about art and marble and form. Crowley half heartedly paid attention, humming his assent now and then.

 

Finally they came out into a sunny plaza. "Where are we?" he asked.

 

"Hm? Oh. The piazza della Signoria" Crowley snorted slightly at the ridiculous way Italian sounded in Aziraphale plummy accent.

 

"Angel, why are we here then?" Crowley said exasperatedly, coming to a lazy stop beside Aziraphale. He did his best, in his upright position, to sprawl.

 

Aziraphale suddenly grabbed his hand excitedly, and pointed across the square "This! My dear friend, this is _David_ "

 

It was a statue. At first, Crowley felt the immediate impulse to scoff, to mock the angel for dragging him to the Italian peninsula to see a statue. But then he _looked_.

 

It passed a rather striking resemblance to the real David, actually. And even Crowley had to admit... The marble work was breathtaking. You almost couldn't believe that the statue wasn't about to start breathing itself, maybe go walking about asking, embarrassed, if anyone remembered where he'd put his trousers. It was so good, it almost quashed Crowley's instinct to poke fun at the statues genitalia. The Italians did try so hard to be greek sometimes.

 

"Michelangelo" Aziraphale breathed, beside him. Crikey turned to look at the man. His eyes were raking over the statue, the look in them so purely dazzled that it squeezed at Crowley's lungs. He had a horrible thought then. That Aziraphale, with his sandy hair that never managed to curl quite angelically and his corporation which pudged in the middle, was far more breathtaking than anything Michelangelo could carve out of marble.

 

He coughed "It's nice" he said, which was as far as he thought he could go without bursting into hellfire right there.

  


**1610, London**

 

They see "Othello" at the globe together because Aziraohale saw its original run at Whitehall Palace and he'd _'just had an inkling'_ that Crowley might like it.

 

Crowley did like it. Iago seemed to be his kind of fellow. Well, maybe not. Iago seemed to be the type of fellow Crowley liked to envision in an abstract sort of way. Wily and conniving and motivelessly malignant. He didn't seem like the type of person Crowley would ever actually want to get a drink with.

 

No. Through some sort of divine twist of fate, Crowley enjoyed getting drinks with a Shakespeare obsessed angel with terrible dress sense. Seriously. He was _always_ half a century behind.

 

Things had been far chummier ever since they'd settled the Arrangement. They did nice things for each other now, like that thing with that dreadfully boring Hamlet, and hardly ever talked about Crowley's damned soul or Aziraphale sacred one. And the job was much easier now, just like Crowley had known it would be when he'd suggested the Arrangement in the first place back in King Arthur's days.

 

It was.... Nice. Everything felt just a little bit lighter now. Less damned.

Aziraphale had just gone off to get them another flagon of red, when a lithe man in stage make up slid across from him. Crowley grinned. It was the actor for Iago.

 

"Well hello" he demurred, as the actor gave off every single signal for down to perform the beast with two backs that Crowley had ever seen "If it isn't _honest_ Iago..."

 

They'd been flirting grandly for quite a few minutes, with Crowley throwing in brilliant innuendos about doing his office and tupping white ewe's, when Aziraphale finally wove his way back to their table.

 

"Ah, Angel" Crowley said, smirking "I've made a friend"

 

"Have you now" Aziraphale said, a slight twist to his lips "Are you going to be spending more time with this... _Friend"_

 

Crowley frowned. Aziraphale hadn't looked so mad about his proclivities since the 1100's. But then the Angel's face changed abruptly into a coy smile. Though it was still tight around his eyes. "Well. Have fun"

He plonked the wine down on the table, and with a harsh squeeze of goodbye to Crowley shoulder he was off. Crowley stared after him, bemused. He hadn't meant for the angel to leave.

 

"Who was that?" The actor said, eyebrow raised.

 

Crowley turned back to him, thinking that now Aziraphale had gone he might as well. He smirked, turning his voice into a purr "Just a colleague, don't you worry. Now... "

 

Later, after Crowley had taken the Actor back to his flat, after they'd fucked in Crowley's luxurious goose feather bed, after the actor had passed out next to him sated with bliss, Crowley stared at the curling trying to keep his mind carefully blank.

 

Because as he'd reached his climax he hadn't said the actors name. Instead he'd mouthed _Angel_ into the man's neck, and thought of sky blue eyes.

 

He resolutely pushes this event deep down and tries to never think about it again.

  


**1666, After the Fire**

 

Oh fuck, he thinks. Oh, _fuck_ . He's in _love_.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Of Floods, Bookshops and Revolutions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much fr the response to chapter one! Made my day. Especially any, completely false but utterly appreciated, comparisons to our Lord and saviour pratchett. We're on our own side. And that side prays to pTerry.  
> Sorry about the wait. I hope this chapter lives up. I think it's a lot more pining heavy than chapter one lmao  
> Any innacuracies and mistakes are my own. Any questions about the historical references will be happily answered. I am a history nerd. It is known.  
> Thank you for reading x

 

**Happy the man, and happy he alone,**

**He who can call today his own:**

**He who, secure within, can say,**

**Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.**

**Be fair or foul or rain or shine**

**The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.**

**Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,**

**But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.**

**-John Dryden, Happy the Man**

 

* * *

**4004 Bc, Somewhere Outside of Eden**

It has been roughly two weeks since the first day of creation. It has taken roughly _two weeks_ for God to realise that she has lost complete control. Humans, who she had first fashioned out of clay (and then scrapped, scrapped that very fast because _oh no_ now there's _Lillith_ and _witches_ and-) and then sensibly decided to start creating them from each other, are tricky.

She'd had to create a secret, ineffable back up plan just in case. There's a folder. She's titled it 'le Deluge'. Of course, she hasn't invented French yet. But time works differently for her.

The first problem with humans is their susceptibility to grand emotions. Honestly. You can't go two minutes without them falling madly in love with someone forbidden by their families. Or starting a war over territory lines. Or dying for their weird causes. And it had only been _two weeks_.

The thought of what they could do with more time made literally impossible grey hairs grow on Her head. She is supposed to be a perfect being. It's in the definition. Omniscient, omnibenevolent, _no grey hairs_.

The second biggest problem with humans is how contagious they prove to be. Very contagious. Once they start running about with their free will, and their knowledge of good and evil, and their _apples_ \--well. You never know where it was going to spread next.

She'd only send him down for a few days and there'd already been that business with the Angel of the Eastern Gate and his flaming sword...

What else could you call that little act of defiance but _human_?

No. Aziraphale was a good and loyal and, best of all, un-inquisitive angel. There was absolutely no need to go and worry over him.

The rest of creation on the other hand…

 

**1707, Outside Parliament, Edinburgh**

“You know, Aziraphale, I worry about you” Crowley huffed, sliding onto the bench where the angel sat “You've been taking on so much work lately”

Aziraphale, who until the demons appearance had been sitting in front of Parliament House perfectly contented and, dare he say it, smug, pursed his lips. “You haven’t gone and done anything to interfere with this have you? Crowley, these negotiations alone took me over a year. Which doesn't even take into account the political mediations I've had to do between England and Scotland over the centuries”

“The Scottish do like an argument, it's true”

“Oh, they’re positively exhausting.” The angel bemoaned, brushing down his cream lapels.

“Yes. It’s almost as if they want to maintain their independence” Crowley said snidely. He felt very strongly about this bloody union business. Which was why, of course, he’d been practically living off've the Royal Mile over the past year trying to circumvent Aziraphale’s ventures towards peace. It was far harder then it seemed initially, trying to get the most incompetent politicians behind this so it would fail.

Unfortunately, there was the possibility that Crowley was too good at his job. The deal was likely to go through tomorrow not despite of the incompetence, but due to it.

That was okay. He supposed Acts could always be reneged on. But the angel didn't have to be so bloody _smug_ about.

Aziraphale gave him a patented _‘I'm disappointed in you’_ look “Oh, but it will help ever _so_ much in the future. Really. What's more important? National pride? Or the greater good?”

Crowley resisted giving the angel a quick jab in the side “The greater good is always a matter of perspective, Angel”

Aziraphale’s only reaction was a tightening around his mouth. He continued to stare out at the wet stone paving stretching out in front of their bench. Crowley found Edinburgh to be one of the few cities that managed to wear damp and gloomy like it was a fashion choice. Even London would be jealous, if it were sentient. Not that Crowley was entirely convinced London wasn't sentient. The whole Thames area seemed slightly angry at Crowley ever since that fire business.

For Satan’s sake, _don’t think about that damn fire._

“Oh come now, Angel. Play your part” Crowley goaded, his tone slightly crueler than intended “Tell me all about how the heavenly perspective just can’t be wrong”

Aziraphale turned his face to look at him, his eyes sad “I wish I could do that, my dear”

Crowley’s breathing, a habit he’d gotten into with his corporation in the third century and had never been able to kick, paused for far longer than any truly human body could sustain. He'd noticed as soon as he’d arrived that there was something wrong with the angel. A sadness that didn’t usually pervaid (and Crowley shuddered to use this expression) the angels aura.

“Angel” Crowley said, his voice purposely devoid of inflection. Sometimes talking to Aziraphale was like trying not to spook a forest creature. “What are you saying?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Aziraphale seemed to realise then, with Crowley's questioning, that what he was partaking in was technically doubting the Lord's Ineffable and Divine plan. You could Fall for less. Crowley had. Aziraphale cleared his throat, standing up suddenly and straightening his already perfectly straight coat tails.

“This awful weather is getting to me, I think" He said. Crowley didn't point out that they'd both lived pretty consistently on the island of Britain for over a millennia. If the terrible weather was going to affect them, it would have done it centuries ago. In Britain you learned to distrust blue skies, or you left.

Aziraphale opened his mouth as if to say something else but instead his gaze caught on something over Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley twisted around on the bench to spot whatever was wrong.

In front of Parliament house two men were arguing loudly, one with a thick Scottish accent and the other with an accent almost as plummy as Aziraphale's, about _taxes_ and _Brandy_ and _whalebones_.

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley with a fully fledged frown on his face now. “Crowley, _what did you do?_ ”

Crowley couldn't help the malevolent grin that unfurled on his face. With the angel’s divine crisis firmly forgotten, he began to explain the loophole he’d found and masterfully (If he did say so himself. And he did. Loudly and often) exploited to the tune of £300,000.

 

**1709, London**

Crowley had been attempting to keep things cool between the angel and him ever since the revelation of, well, his _feelings_. This was made harder, ironically, by one of the coldest winters Crowley had experienced since the literal Ice Age.

London had been having Frost Fairs. Frost fairs. As if London were some provincial fairy Town in some backwards German kingdom instead of the dog-eat-dog City that Crowley had seen grow around the Thames. Like over enthusiastic landscapers, Crowley and Aziraphale had tended to London in their diametric ways for centuries until it had become its glorious self. A paragon of sin and creation. Vice and virtue. A criminal den and a safe haven. Sometimes both to the same person.

London was epitomic middle ground. Then suddenly the Thames would freeze over and the whole city seemed to become blanketed in good will as equally as grey slush. This had happened all throughout the last century too. Disgusting.

The good thing was that the fair only lasted as long as the ice did. Plus, there was always the chance he could see someone fall and land on their _derrière_. You had to hold on to small joys.

The bigger problem, even bigger than ruining the general amoral atmosphere of Crowley's favourite city, came down to the angel. Most problems in Crowley's life seemed to eventually come back to the angel.

Aziraphale _loved_ the fairs.

"Oh dear, look!" The ridiculous man exclaimed, pointing over to an area that was overtaken by lovers skating hand in hand "Shall we-"

"Absolutely not" Crowley huffed. That was the sort of thing that would undoubtedly _heat up_ his feelings instead of cooling them.

The angel pouted at him. Crowley rolled his eyes.

"Oh for- I came here with you didn't I?"

Aziraphale pout just intensified. Crowley was sure he used miracles to make that expression so effective.

"For the love of Beelzebub" He snarled, grabbing the angels hand roughly " _Fine_ "

Aziraphale smiled softly the whole time. Crowley felt as warm as mulled wine.

For Hell's sake. He hoped the whole damned river broke apart beneath their feet.

  
  


**1750, Soho**

"--to Satan, Angel. If this Whitfield inspires anymore religious awakenings I'm going to--"

"Oh, what?" Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes heavenwards. Crowley thought that really wasn't a very angelic thing to do. "What will you do?"

They were in the corner building in Soho that Aziraphale had recently aquired. Aziraphale was building bookshelves by hand, and when he turned his back Crowley was miracle-ing them so that they'd actually stand up straight. Or stand up at all.

Crowley huffed, shoving one of Aziraphale's dusty tomes a few inches out of place in petty frustration. "It's just _not done_." He muttered.

Aziraphale laughed, throwing his head back as if Crowley had told a brilliant joke. Crowley couldn't help watching the way his neck arched. Aziraphale was always especially beautiful when he laughed.

"Inspiring religious belief? Darling, I'm pretty sure that's our entire job" Aziraphale mocked, patting Crowley on the shoulder as he walked past him to the small kitchen. The angel had begun a habit of tea drinking.

Crowley groaned into his hands after the angel had departed the room. He could still hear the ( _stupid, soft, gorgeous)_ being that haunted his nightmares tinkering about in the kitchen.

He didn't point out that actually _his_ job was to thwart those religious beliefs. He'd become particularly terrible at thwarting recently.

He glowered at a wonky cherry wood shelf. The creak it let out straightening itself up sounded suspiciously like a whimper.

  
  


**1762, St. Petersburg**

It was a benign September day when Catherine Alexeievna Romanova, who would later earn the moniker Great, was crowned empress of Russia. Of course, she had not been born Catherine. She had not even been born Russian.  History is full of powerful people who refuse to stay what they are born. Not if they can help it.

Or gain an empire from it.

Crowley thought it was rather apt that the coronation was taking place at the Assumption Cathedral. Here Catherine was, once just little Princess Sophie from Prussia, _assum_ ing a dynasty because she knew she could do a better job than her husband, and she had made people believe it. Marvelous.

Quite, it _was_ marvelous. Which is why Crowley had been in St. Petersburg for 8 years, playing in the sandbox of the imperial Court. Oh. And _absolutely not_ avoiding any London based heavenly emissaries.

Catherine is half way down the aisle of the cathedral, resplendent in Royal garb, and Crowley's considering whether this good a job can justify a short retirement to the Seychelles when-

"Well I think this could be rather good for Russia in the long run"

Crowley jumps. He's in the furthest pew back, but his sudden startle still elicits strange looks from the nearby Russian elite. When he looks beside him, Aziraphale is wedged between the end of the pew and himself, smiling blandly at him.

"What in Your-Lot's name are you doing here?" He hisses "Did you _miracle_ yourself into this coronation?"

Aziraphale smiles at him benignly, patting Crowley's hand reassuringly "Well. It is a church I suppose. Sort of gives any miracle I perform that little boost"

"You _didn't-_ "

Aziraphale rolls his eyes "I'm joking dear, of course not. Anyway, I'm trying to cut back on my Miracle output" He looks abashed for a moment, then looks at Crowley sideways "You just really aren't as observant as you think you are, old friend"

A Russian in front of them turns round and shushes them obnoxiously. Crowley glares them into turning back around. Catherine finally reaches the altar.

"What the _christ_ are you doing here, Aziraphale?" Crowley grits no out.

Aziraphale scoffs lightly "I haven't seen you in a decade"

"Oh, it has _not_ been a decade"

"Almost a decade" Aziraphale is practically pouting.

"So what?" Crowley mumbles "We didn't see each other for the whole of the 14th century Bc"

"Well. We weren't as close in the 14th century Bc. Plus" He wheedles "You were in Egypt, ending the 18th dynasty"

"And as I recall you were helping to write the Bhagavad Gita"

"Oh" Aziraphale says, suddenly sunny again "I do love Hinduism"

"Isn't that technically encouraging idol worship?" Crowley inquires.

"That's the brilliant part, you see in their relig-"

Crowley cuts him off, feeling a lecture coming on and cutting him off at the source.

"Why are you really here, Angel? You cannot know how hard I worked getting rid of the last Tsar. Please, don't screw this up for me"

Aziraphale frowns "I told you"

"You did _not_ come all the way to Russia just to tell me you missed me"

"I never said I missed you!"

Crowley raises an eyebrow. He's gotten very good at that now. He's also started wearing sunglasses. Over all his judgemental looks have really been given an upgrade.

"Okay, fine. I missed you a little" Aziraphale says.

Crowley smirks slightly, staying quiet. He hadn't really come to Russia out of any great want. Instead, it was because he was pretty sure that if he stayed around the angel any longer he was going to get desperate enough to do shots of holy water. Just to take the blessed edge off.

It isn't until the ceremony, long and drawn out and just _oh so Orthodox_ as it is, that Crowley speaks again.

"Fine" He murmurs "I'll come back to London with you"

Aziraphale smiles and goes to speak, but Crowley cuts him off.

" _But,_ first you have to try this wonderful thing called vodka. You'll _hate_ it"

  
  


**1793, Paris**

 He strides through a crowd of enraptured Frenchmen, muttering to himself. He's not sure if the crowd is sympathetic to the extinct throne, or the revolution. There is jeering, but it's swallowed by pockets of silence dotted throughout the rabble.

 _The most hated woman in France_ , Crowley thinks with a sigh. He overhears a few muttered curses about _L'Autrichienne._

But he isn't here to linger over the awful things humans do to each other in bids for so called freedom. _Ou la mort,_ indeed. He's here for, well, his own special brand of _fraternité._

Lucifer knows why Aziraphale has found himself in Paris during this bloody fiasco.

***

Aziraphale looks up from his _crêpe sucrées,_ smiling.

"It was awfully nice of you to save me back there, my dear" He says, Crowley can't help but think he sounds slightly sly "But how _did_ you know to come hm?"

Oh, bollocks. "Maybe I just have connections"

The angel raises one eyebrow. "What? Informants that managed to get word to you over the Channel in a couple of hours"

Crowley sighs. "Fine" he grumbles "I may have gone over to the bookshop. Then I _may_ have wondered where you were, seen as you really are _such a_ homebody Angel, and after that I _possibly_ asked your neighbour-"

"The flower seller?" Aziraphale cuts in, surprised.

"Yes, the flower seller. Who told me that you'd told her that you'd be gone for a few days-"

"Well somebody had to check on the cat"

"Hello! _I_ could have checked on that bloody cat"

Aziraphale looked doubtful "You hate Professor Meow"

"Well" Crowley scoffed, because it was true "Maybe that's because you called it _Professor Cat_ " Crowley rolls his eyes "Anyway, after I realised that you'd come to Paris, in the middle of a bloody revolution, well. I used a miracle." He winced. "Thought you'd probably be stupid enough to wind up with your Aristocratic head waved at a crowd of cheering blood thirsty paupers"

Aziraphale smiled gently, reaching over to swap Crowley's untouched full plate with his own sparklingly clean one. Crowley had still never really gotten into the habit of eating regularly. "You _worried"_

Crowley snorted, staring grumpily at a table over the angels eyes and absolutely not avoiding his eyes out of embarrassment.

"You _were_ . You _worried_ about me. Why, Crowley. That's positively _good_ of you"

Crowley shoves the chair abruptly back from the rickety table and stands up "Right. _Fine._ I'd say it was good to see you except this is Paris under siege and, as you love to point out, _we are enemies_. Goodbye, Angel"

Aziraphale snorts lightly as Crowley goes to storm past him. He catches the demons wrist lightly, his long delicate fingers a handcuff stopping Crowley in the midst of his dramatic storm off. He looks up at Crowley, eyes boring sincerely into his.

"Crowley" he says softly "Merci, mon chère"

"Don't say that" Crowley says, and his voice cracks slightly under the weight of the angels gaze.

Aziraphale just smiles at him, as brightly as ever, and softly let's his wrist go.

Crowley wallows in self pity the whole boat trip back over the channel.

 

**1801, Soho**

"You do realize that the purpose of a bookshop is to sell books right?" Crowley intones, leaning against a bookshelf and watching as another customer leaves. Scared of by the terrible atmosphere Aziraphale always manages to put on anytime someone seems like they may potentially attempt to procure one of his precious books. The sod.

Aziraphale looks over at him, gaze innocently blank. "I have absolutely no idea what you're implying" He says, voice airy. Then he switches back to his usual tone "Anyway, what are you doing here? I didn't think we had any business to discuss"

Crowley shrugs, walking over to take the other seat near the barely used sales counter. "Not official business, no. But I did have something I wanted to pick your brains about"

"Oh?" Aziraphale says, disinterested. He's already returned to his pre-customer activity of reading a dusty copy of _King Lear._ Crowley isn't sure how he does it, but even brand new books tend to end up dusty and antique within seconds of the angel owning them. It's as if they feel his presence, and suddenly they're aware they won't be going anywhere for a long time and so realise they can let themselves go and retire from a hard life of being pristine. That's what Aziraphale's shop is. A retirement home where books go to age in peace.

"You've not had anything to do with this Ireland business, have you? Because I thought we'd gone through all that with Scotland."

"Hm? Oh no. I've been keeping out of politics. Mayhaps I'll focus on the flourishing arts this century. Far less hassle"

"Is it?" Said Crowley, who couldn't think of anything that caused more of a hassle than the bloody arts.

"Yes" The Angel says mildly, then looks up at Crowley shrewdly "Anyway. Possibly you were right in interfering with the last unification attempt. The Jacobite rising wasn't exactly what I had in mind in terms of _peace_ "

"Yes, revolutions to take rather more work than that when they're actually intentional" Aziraphale looks at him with disapproval "Really, I can't see the English trying to subjugate the _Irish_ as going anything but terrible"

Aziraphale frowns and it looks rather like a frown "I do hope there won't be another revolution. I'm hardly over the last major one"

"Yes there have been rather a lot lately"

"It's all this constitutional monarchy business" Aziraphale huffs, finally putting the Shakespeare aside and getting into the conversation "I mean no one was going about in heaven telling God that she could be in charge, _but as long as someone else makes all the actual decisions for you_ "

"Well" Crowley pointed out slowly "I may be remembering wrong, but I'm pretty sure there _were_ "

Aziraphale flushes "Right, well, obviously. That."

"I rather like constitutional monarchy" Crowley muses

"You would" Aziraphale says sharply "Just because the french do it _doesn't_ make it stylish"

"That's not what you said about the gavotte" Crowley says, grinning.

Aziraphale smiles, looking wistful and drumming his fingers against the table "Yes. That was rather nice"

"I wonder if you've still got it in you" Crowley says, slyly. That would be an image to brighten his day.

Aziraphale purses his lips slightly "Now that is something that I'd need a few drinks in me to attempt"

"Well" Crowley says, already heading to the cupboard Aziraphale keeps his wine in "I know a challenge when I see it"

It takes 4 glasses of wine to get Aziraphale dancing, and one wheeling angelic pair of eyes for Crowley to get up and join in. Of course, with almost two bottles of wine gone between them, it only takes a few minutes for them to end up on the floor of the bookshop, giggling.

"'issa nice rug" Crowley says, petting the musty Persian rug. He's lying on his side and the rug is soft beneath his cheek. Aziraphale is propped up against the bookshelf, legs stretched out in front of him with the wine bottle between his thighs. Nice thighs, Crowley thinks despondent.

Aziraphale's frowning. Crowley wants to crawl over to the angel and push at his cheeks until he smiles again. But he'd probably do something idiotic like kiss his stupid face.

"I miss Shakespeare" Aziraphale says, staring off into space. "He had such a marvelous way with words"

"Shakespeare" Crowley sneers mockingly, unable to stop himself. Stupid Shakespeare and his stupid eloquent solliloquies that the angel paid more attention than he ever paid Crowley.

Aziraphale's eyes fix on him, his eyebrows scrunched together. "I thought you of all people would miss it too"

Crowley snorts, sitting up indignantly. It makes his head spin. " _Why_?"

"Well" Aziraphale says, and he almost sounds as if he's sneering "You and your act _ors_ "

He says the word actors as if what he's actually saying is _male prostitutes_.

Crowley rolls his eyes, crawling over to snatch the bottle of wine and take a swig. He flops down next to the angel. "I thought you told me you didn't disapprove of all that."

He doesn't point out that he hasn't even slept with anyone since that actor.

"I don't" Aziraphale says, haughtily.

"Yeah" Crowley says with an eye roll "You sound positively approving"

"Well maybe I just don't approve when _you_ do it!" The angel snaps.

Crowley stares at him, mouth slightly agape. Was he?- _No._ Surely not.

Aziraphale blushes a brilliant shade of magenta. "I mean--I just _mean--"_

But he doesn't actually get to saying what it is he means, just gapes at Crowley, mouth opening and closing in befuddlement.

Crowley, heart in his throat just like all the stupid Georgian romance novels siad it would be, leans forward incrimentally. Aziraphale's eyes flick down to his lips.

"Maybe we should sober up" the angel whispers breathily.

"Yeah" Crowley croaks "Maybe"

Neither of them move to do so. All Crowley can think is that it's been 5000 damned years. _Blessed_ years.

Then Aziraphale is surging forward, a flurry of graceless limbs. The wine bottle drops from Crowley's hands as he reaches up to cup the angels face in his hands. Aziraphale's lips meet Crowley's, and the world is crafted anew.

Or perhaps it isn't. Perhaps even an angel kissing a demon doesn't warrant on the scale of creation. But it feels like that to Crowley. It feels like the first time he took a breathe in this corporation. The air had expanded his lungs and for a second he thought he'd broken the body, until he'd exhaled. It feels like watching cities rise and fall and rise again from the ashes.

It feels like watching London burn around him, realising he would do anything to see Aziraphale smile at him again.

Crowley runs his hands through the angel's hair, just as soft as it looks. He tries to commit the feeling to memory. The feeling of Aziraphale's soft lips moving against his, too, is one he never wants to forget.

He knows, even as it's happening, that this is something he will have to remember. Not simply the first kiss of many, which he can lose in between a haystack of others.

Crowley is a demon. He knows how things like this go.

Aziraphale pulls back from the kiss slowly, but not away from Crowley completely. He ducks his head into Crowley's neck and the demon can feel him tremor as he gathers his breath. Crowley stays still. He fears that with any sudden movement he will find himself with a shattered heart.

Finally, Aziraphale pulls his face away and looks at him. There's a lilt of a smile to his face. It gives Crowley hope. But he's wary of hope, as all intelligent beings should be. After all, Crowley knows which side had invented it.

Aziraphale lifts his hand and cups Crowley's jaw, his thumb grazing back and forth across his cheekbone. "You're beautiful"

It's his tone of voice that gives it away. Crowley knows for certain then what's about to happen. The angel sounds _kind_. As if Crowley is a dying child that he's giving comfort to before the end comes.

"But?" He croaks out, trying and failing to sneer at the only being he has ever truly loved.

Aziraphale's smile is sad now, clearly. Perhaps it always was and Crowley was only fooling himself. "My dear, you have to _know"_

Crowley pulls away then. He can't bare to look the angel in his eyes. "Say it in your own words Angel" He growls "I dare you"

When Aziraphale's voice finally sounds behind him, it's quiet and meagre. Like the dust of the book shop has clogged up the words before they can reach Crowley's ears.

"I shouldn't be anything but what I was created for. The Divine plan, Crowley"

Crowley thinks that if he were a worse man (or demon, or beast, or whatever the hell he is), he would scream. The problem is that Crowley had never been as terrible as he would like people to believe. He sobers himself up, and stands slowly, and he doesn't scream a 5000 years of pain into the silence of the book shop.

"Just because you shouldn't" He says, striding towards the front exit "Doesn't mean you _can't_ "

He goes home to his flat. He sleeps.

 

**1891, London**

When Crowley finally wakes up, a century has almost waxed and waned and with it the dawn of an empire. Truly. What insane things people will do when you leave them alone to go have a kip.

Crowley had drifted in and out throughout the 1820's, and woken up briefly to witness Queen Victoria's coronation. He'd felt the presence of Aziraphale a few times. Standing outside his building, or in his living room. On one memorable occasion he'd even come into the bedroom.

Crowley, who had drifted awake slowly into a room full of Aziraphale's voice, had expected the angel to be discussing their situation. Instead, he'd been reciting a poem. Something new, he'd said.

" _Here, where the world is quiet,_

_Here, where all trouble seems…."_

But Crowley couldn't bring himself to wake up fully. To step into the world outside, glorious and suffocating and always somehow burning. Somehow drowning.

It became exhausting, living. That was something humans didn't understand. Death was a gift.

Crowley scoffed to himself, pulling himself finally out of the musty bedclothes. No need to be so dramatic.

He walked over to the oak dresser. In front of the gilt mirror where Crowley liked to practice the sin of vanity, a pair of sunglasses lay folded and dusty. He cricked his neck, stretching out his entwined fingers until the joints of his fingers popped. He picked up the glasses and grinned at himself in the mirror. There was still time to place his stamp on this century.

Sometimes you just needed to sleep until you felt like yourself again.

 _Now_. Time to go out and raise a lot of hell.

 

**1918, Ykaterinberg**

"This is just like Spanish Inquisition all over again" Aziraphale said, fretting at his bottom lip.

Crowley couldn't stop staring at him. He was, as Aziraphale had proudly pointed out, dressed as a Russian serf. "You look terrible. Honestly horrific. How is _that_ what you think the Russian people dress like?" He frowned "And don't bring up the bloody inquisition"

Aziraphale ignored him "Really. What is the point of you even being here when the humans think of things a thousand times worse than anything you could ever do?"

"Hey!" Now that was offensive "I could do something terrible, too"

Aziraphale looked at him, eyebrow quirked. "Really?"

Crowley muttered to himself, choosing the obviously mature course of action not to respond to the angel's doubt. The bastard.

"Anyway" Crowley said "What's so bad about keeping them in a house?"

Aziraphale turned yo him fully now, hands on hips. "You really believe they're just going to let them live here? Forever?"

"Maybe" Crowley shrugged, though he didn't believe it. The Bolsheviks were just as single minded and harsh as every group with a Grand Cause that had come before them.

Crowley stared at the white washed house where the ex-Tsar of Russia and his family had stayed imprisoned these last few months. It was a strange sort of luxury. Crowley had been by Peter's side before he'd even been called the Great. He'd seen him take the Romanovs from simple Tsars to Emperors and Empresses. He could still remember Aziraphale's strange visit on Catherine's coronation as clear as if it were yesterday. And now he was watching an empire be imprisoned. Another bloody revolution.

Crowley and Aziraphale were a historians wet dream. This certainly wasn't the first dynasty they'd seen rise and fall.

Crowley sighed, resigned to his fate as a slightly better person than he would have liked to be.

"I suppose" He said, already dreading the look of hope on Aziraphale face "I suppose we could try and help"

"Oh, really?" And yes, Aziraphale definitely had _that_ look on his face. The one that said ' _oh Crowley I knew you were a good person after all! Hooray!'_ or whatever it was angels said.

"Well" Crowley shrugged uncomfortably "Maybe we could try to get some of the children out"

Aziraphale looked so happy for a moment Crowley dreaded and hoped the angel was going to hug him. Thankfully, he got a grip on himself.

"We'll need disguises" Aziraphale said, rubbing his hands together excitedly like they were planning a fun jape instead of a Royal kidnapping.

"Oh fuck no" Crowley groaned "If I let you pick out clothes we'll probably end up getting arrested by the Bolsheviks ourselves" He sighed, grabbing the angels sleeve "Come on, Angel. To work"

 

**1927, New York**

Crowley leaned back against the red brick wall of a brooklyn building, and puffed out a cloud of acrid smoke. Ah, cigarettes. Possibly one of his most evil inventions.

It was a shame he'd gone and gotten addicted to them himself. Hubris he supposed.

He could see Aziraphale through the window of the diner. It was all very New York. In neon green italics the place was proclaimed _'Nathan's'_. The prices of ice cream sodas, Malted milks, Frankfurters and burgers were on large white signs below it. That's what Crowley liked about America. They were upfront about everything. Especially when it came to consumerism.

He sighed. He supposed he should cross the street and go and join the angel. He'd only popped out for a cigarette (Aziraphale hated when he smoked inside, despite the fact that literally _everyone else_ did it. Another evil deed he'd been very proud to report to head office) and Aziraphale would be wondering where he was. He could see that the angel had struck up conversation with the haggard waitress, and she seemed to be getting more and more charmed by the second. Aziraphale tended to charm people. It was his accent and his general air of complete inefficacy.      

They'd spent the whole day together. It had been Crowley's idea, for once this century. Crowley hadn't been very forthcoming with invitations for the angel out of a desperate attempt to spare his own heart. That hadn't stopped them from seeing each other with alarming regularity. It had been a busy century, wars and revolutions and inventions abounded. Crowley hadn't seen skirts this short since the Spartans. They'd had to do rather a lot of conferring to make sure their memos didn't contradict. Not that their respective head offices ever actually checked up on them. Crowley could tell the demons downstairs that he'd blown up the moon and they'd only send him a note to keep the good work up.

But it had been getting easier, in a way, to be around the angel. Things were calmer, now. They were better friends than they'd ever been anything else before.

So Crowley had asked Aziraphale to go to a movie with him. _They've made them talk 'Zire,_ he'd said, trying not to seem as excited as he was, _you'll like this one, promise._

And it was true, The Jazz Artist had been wonderful. Despite what Aziraphale liked to pretend about anything that wasn't 100 years old and German or Austrian or French, jazz music was rather good.

The problem was that Al Jolson had only been a minute into his second song when Crowley had looked over at Aziraphale and felt his heart twang with _want_.

Across the street, Aziraphale twisted around in his seat and waved at him through the window. His smile was questioning, as if he could tell even from the diner that Crowley was worrying over something.

Crowley smiled back weakly, and stubbed out his cigarette. Then he crossed the street to finish is not-date.

 

**1941, London**

 A bomb fell only a few feet from where Crowley walked, causing the bakery that had always sold the best jam tarts to lose half of its front facade. Crowley kept walking, and just imagined very strongly that the bombs couldn't hurt him however close they fell.

He was only a few metres from the corner where Aziraphale's bookshop stood, untouched by the blitz. Crowley suspected that Aziraphale had done a little _imagining_ of his own to keep it that way.

When he reached the bookshop, he pushed the door open with his elbow because his hands were full with food and wine. It was possible the door had been locked, but Crowley hadn't let a lock stop him in his existence and he wasn't about to start now.

"Aziraphale!" he called out into the empty shop floor "I haven't seen you since that business with the Nazi's. I hope you haven't died"

He drops his supplies onto the desk Aziraphale usually uses to dissuade customers from making sales. Then he goes over and knocks very loudly on the _'staff only'_ door. "Aziraphale. Come down!" He paused "Unless your naked" He paused again, then under his breath "And if your naked maybe I'll just come up"

He smirked to himself at the dirty entendre. He was very good at those, even with the lack of sex he'd been having over the last three or four centuries. Love was such a cockblocker.

He heard footsteps on the stairs and felt satisfied enough to cross over and start pulling out the meagre picnic he'd pulled together with his rations. It was probably a good thing that Crowley hardly ever indulged in eating.

Aziraphale yanked open the door and stepped into the room. He looked unusually blustery. "It's only been a few months. You needn't put together a search party"

Crowley didn't point out that it was the longest they'd been apart since the start of the century. "Well, Angel. I wasn't sure if you were _aware_ but there's a war going on. Anything could happen to a poor corporation just going about their angelic business"

Aziraphale huffed, grabbing a jam sandwich (blueberry. Aziraphale's favourite) and biting angrily. A fleck of blue jam flies out and lands on his upper lip. Crowley only considers reaching over and licking it off for a single moment.

"What's up with you lately, Angel?" Crowley says, raising an eyebrow.

Aziraphale avoids eye contact, picking at the bread grouchily. "As you kindly reminded me, my dear. There _is_ a war going on. Maybe I'm just upset about that"

"Maybe" Crowley concedes, though he doesn't truly believe it.

There's a silence then. It isn't really awkward. It's hard to have an awkward silence when you've known someone for 6000 years. All of your history just fills in the cracks like putty.

But Crowley can tell something's different with Aziraphale. He'd been fine before the church. He'd even seemed _happy_ when Crowley had handed him his books.

Aziraphale gazes contemplatively out of the window. Dusty as it is, they can still see the smouldering wreck of the flower shop. "Do you think…?"

Aziraphale trails off and Crowley has to prod him "Do I think…?"

Aziraphale looks at him finally, eyes vacant like he's seeing something entirely different. "Don't you wonder sometimes if it's all…. Pointless." He frowns "I only mean, look at what they do to each other" He swallow, looking away "And it's not just the war. It's, I mean, the things they put each other through" His voice is a hollow whisper "All of the heartbreak"

Crowley states at the angel, confused beyond belief. He's never seen him like this "No" He says without hesitation, "I don't think it's pointless at all"   

Aziraphale looks at him shocked "How can you be so sure?"

Crowley shrugs, looking at his feet "Well. There's always a balance to the hurt, you know. There's heartbreak, sure. But then there's love" He coughs, suddenly uncomfortable at how sift he sounds "No human would want to be alive without love"  

Aziraphale stares at him, mouth parted slightly in shock. Then he blinks, and suddenly it's as if he's snapped out of whatever haze he was in. His eyes light up, and he smiles, but it's just that little bit too bright "I never knew you were such a romantic, my dear" He stands abruptly, dusting off his hands "Well, I have some work to attend to. We'll go to dinner next week, yes?" He starts walking over to the door to the back stairs "Have a nice day, Crowley"

Crowley gapes after him "Hang on! Aziraphale-" he starts to say, but the door has already swung shut.

Crowley sits stunned. Outside, the blitz rages on.

 

**1957, Los Angeles**

"You invented something to help them get _better_ at being promiscuous?" Aziraphale says, aghast. He's holding a packet of the Combined Oral Contraceptive pills.

"No" Crowley says, firmer than he usually is in the face of Aziraphale judgement "I _helped_ them invent something so that women can finally start to control their own bodies."

Aziraphale stares at him, mouth open. He stares at Crowley, dumbfounded and somehow looking _devastated._ He snaps his mouth shut and turns abruptly. "Right. Well. Yes. Good work. Probably a good thing"

Then he strides off, leaving Crowley confused and alone once again.

  
  


**1963, Washington, D. C**

There are moments that change the course of a country's history. America has a lot of these. (They're very dramatic. It's something in the soil.)

Crowley isn't thinking about historic moments as he pushes against the crowd trying to find his way to the blonde head he can see bobbing slightly ahead between a sea of protestors. He's thinking about how Aziraphale could have just bloody waited for him this morning so Crowley wouldn't have to fight his way to his side. Bloody inconsiderate, that was.

Ahead, Martin Luther King stands on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and addresses the crowd. It's all very admirable and historic and _would people please move out of the way._

Finally, he reaches Aziraphale's side. The angel glances at him, the only surprise on his face present in a single raised eyebrow.

They stand in silence, listening to King provocate on the Emancipation Proclamation and the freedom of black Americans. Or lack thereof.

Crowley has never understood racism, and certainly has never understood the unprovoked, unimaginable anger that it provokes in some people. As if the colour of a humans skin somehow makes them contagious, or lesser. Crowley was there for the beginning of the universe. It's simple melanin.

Crowley is sure that if Eve, who was always a spitfire but never more so than after that first bite of apple, could see how the world treated her descendants she would live up to her title as the downfall of man. Viciously, he was certain.

"He's very inspiring" Aziraphale murmurs, soft. Aziraphale has always been hit even harder than Crowley by proof of humanities cruelty. Crowley knows the Angel had rather a lot to do with that first gathering of abolitionists in the back of a printing shop in the 1700's. Twelve men began trying to change the world then, but maybe it was going to take this one man to really do it.

"Humans affecting change is always inspiring" Crowley says, watching the side of Aziraphale face. His cheek bones. The red apple of his rounded cheeks. The curls falling into his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches up.

"Why, demon" Aziraphale says coyly "How optimistic you sound"

Crowley snorts, but doesn't respond. He turns back to listen to the reverend.

_"….. so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream."_

Further ahead, a voice cries out. A black woman shouts "Tell them about the dream, Martin!"

" _I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: 'we hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.'..... "_

Crowley smiles quietly, unable to stop himself, as King Jr explains his dream to the energised crowd.

Something squeezes his hand. He looks down, confused. Aziraphale is holding his hand. He looks up, eyebrows raised in shock.

The angel smiles at him, softly. He squeezes his hand and says " 'they may choose to look the other way, but they can never say again that they did not know' "

Under the white stone face of Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr finishes his speech.

_"Free at last! Free at last!_

_Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"_

This is perhaps one of those moments that changes the course of history forever more.

But Crowley isn't thinking about history. He squeezes Aziraphale's hand back.

 

**1969, Soho**

 

They'd watched the moon landing on the small television in Aziraphale flat above the bookshop. Crowley could have easily miracle a bigger receptacle, a near perfect image of Mr. Armstrong's first step for mankind.

But they do it the human way. The way millions of people across the whole world, crowded into the living rooms of whoever is lucky enough to own a telly.

But it's just the two of them, here.

After its finished, Aziraphale smiles softly at the black screen, still glowing faintly in the middle in the way that tellys always do. Crowley watches him. The butter yellow light coming from a hideous lamp is the only light they have on. It's battling for dominance with the silver light of the moon across the planes of Aziraphale face.

Hell. He is such a lovestruck idiot.

 Aziraphale turns his head to look back at Crowley, lazily. They have all the time in the world. Sometimes it is easy to remember that.

Crowley is on one end of Aziraphale's ugly tartan settee, Aziraphale the other. Their feet are fighting for territory on the middle cushion. Crowley kicks the angels shin lightly, in a bid to _do something_ that isn't lean across and kiss him.

Again.

God. Does Aziraphale put some blasted aphrodisiac into the air of this bloody bookshop?

Aziraphale smiles at him, eyes light and dancing as they flit across Crowley's face. "It's strange" he says, but that's all he says.

"What's strange?" Crowley says, voice loose with wine. Aziraphale had gotten the good vintage stuff out.

It seems that Aziraphale isn't going to answer him, but slowly he sits upright, so that they're closer together. "It's so strange. That here they are, humanity reaching into the stars and carving their presence into the cosmos." He places his hand on Crowley's knee "And yet I can't be allowed to love you the way I want to because we're on opposite sides"

Crowley's heart stutters. The skin where Aziraphale's hand rests is tingling with heat, even through his wool slacks. "We could make her own side" He breathes.

"We could go to the stars together" Aziraphale breathes.

"I'll find us somewhere to go. I'll steal us a rocketship from the American's"

There are tears shimmering unspilled in Aziraphale eyes. He leans up onto his knees, so that his body his hovering over Crowley's.

He presses one, almost chaste, but _burning_ kiss to Crowley's lips. He pulls back, and Crowley holds himself together enough not to chase his lips.

"Stealing is wrong" Aziraphale says. They haven't raised their voices above a whisper. This has never been for anyone but them.

"I don't care" Crowley says, even though he has known all along where this conversation will end.

Aziraphale rests his hand on Crowley's cheek. He let's tye tears slip from his eyes and catch on his lips. "I do, my dear"

Crowley is not proud, despite what his performed arrogance might have one believe. This is why before he gets up off the sofa, before he walks into the kitchen and steadies himself for a long moment in front of the angels microwave, before he lets go of his own heart, his own angel, and accepts that they can never truly be what either of them want to be to each other, he leans up and captures Aziraphale lips in a kiss. The type of kiss that no one, not even God above, could mistake as anything but one between lovers.

"I'll go make tea" he says finally.

 

 

**1975, Soho, London**

 

The first time Crowley's Velvet Underground cassette starts playing Queen without his permission, he gets very confused.

The one hundredth time it happens during that week, he _screams_.

Aziraphale does a very bad job at hiding his laughter.

 

**1984, London**

Crowley hadn't been present for Stonewall, but Aziraphale had told him about it after. About the anger, the pride, the unwillingness of the people to limit themselves anymore for the sake of comforting a society that detested them. How they had refused to conform. Not for the sake of anyone. How Aziraphale had cried, and miracled the handcuffs the police had used so that they wouldn't leave bruises on the wrists of those arrested.

Across the street Crowley watches a women with brightly coloured hair stride past, on the back of her denim jacket she has painted the words _"The first pride was a riot"_ in rainbow capitals.

It's a hot June, and an unhappy pride. It's angry. Provocative. Seething. The people marching are marching in defiance, and fear, of the illness which has taken the lives of many of their friends, lovers and community members in the last 3 years.

Crowley knows that Aziraphale is still inside the wards of St. Bart's, giving both religious and non religious guidance to the AIDs patients that many other religious leaders won't bless. He's doing more, as well, than just reading passages about God's love. Miracles here and there, when the nurses aren't looking. But he can't save everyone. However much Crowley knows he wants to.

But Crowley isn't with him today. He hadn't wanted to miss this. He rationalises his own interest like this: isn't every act of defiance an act in favour of down below? The truth is, it makes him feel better, selfishly, to see people living their lives the way they want to despite what it may cost them.

Angel and demons don't have sexualities the way humans do. But there's still a little part of Crowley that marches along with the parade, in soul if not in body.

**1989, Berlin**

Socialism was one of Crowley's favourite human inventions. After. Cabernet Sauvignon, of course.

It had inspired assassination attempts, riots, chaos. All points in favour of damned souls. He could admit to himself, however, that he had found the other things it could do fascinating too. It's strivance to care about everyone, it's focus on the poor, it's damming of greed. The inspiration of many an artist, many a revolutionary.

He'd positively loved the Spanish Civil War back in '36. Chile had seemed to have a good thing going before America helped that demon Pinochet into power. Bloody Americans.

But even Crowley had to Admit, the Eastern Blocc wasn't the best look for Europe.

The problem was, no one ever looked at communism in the right way. It wasn't communism that was bad, or Capitalism, or the 'evil' Tories at that, it was the people that would use any vehicle as a means to achieve power. It was the people who would crash that vehicle into wall after wall just for the chance to feel on top.

But Crowley didn't think it was such a bad idea. This sharing business. Perhaps one day a country would actually get it right.

Speaking of Walls. Crowley did feel sort of guilty for this one. He hadn't meant to start anything, really. He'd only meant to make a joke to that guy in that pub. Really, it _was_ funny to think of two countries sharing one capital. It's surely not Crowley's fault that somebody took that suggestion seriously?

And now, _finally_ , the Berlin Wall was falling. Crowley sat, sipping at his beer. He was in a small tavern close to the wall, watching people tear it down through the dirty window.

You just really couldn't plan around humans. They always did something bigger and better and _so much worse_ than you could ever design for them.

He knew that he'd gone native. Of course he knew that. It was only, well, how could you help it? When every human being on the planet was spinning past you, daily. With their hopes and dreams and hates and _loves_. With their art. Their war. The way they looked at the stars.

He'd lived the whole history of the human race right alongside them, and somewhere along the way he'd fallen in love.

But loving _humans_ wasn't the real problem. It was the other thing, the ethereal thing. No. _Fuck_. Fuck humans and their contagious feelings.

Outside, the wall loomed- _-and fell anyway._ In Crowley's mindseye a thousand walls were built to withstand and crumbled anyway, fortresses were called impenetrable and always torn apart anyway, people swore themselves cold and fell in love _anyway_. A river always carved out a new way to flow.

He sighed. He sipped his beer. He watched another wall come down.

The dawn of a new bloody era, he supposed.

 

**Sometime-After-Creation, Far-Far-Away-From-Earth.**

The road to hell is paved with good intentions. The road to early retirement from divine rule is paved with good intentions, bad misjudgement and a terrible, terrible lack of foresight.

So much for omnipotence.

 _You know what they say,_ God thinks, sipping a Mai Tai on another plane of existence that looks suspiciously like a tropical beach, _hindsight is 20/20._

God would just like it known that She hasn't been calling any shots since roughly a fortnight after creation. None of anything proceeding has anything at all to do with her. Nada. Zilch.

Humanity just really doesn't have the good vibes She's surrounding Herself with at the moment. At _any_ moment.

They wanted free will so badly, who was She to stand in their way?

 

**2007, Upper Tadfield.**

Crowley turned around slowly in the Bentley. In the back seat, the antichrist slept peacefully.

For the first time in 6000 years, Crowley _prayed_.

When that didn't work, he punched a tree.

Then he took the baby into the hospital, already planning out his telephone call to Aziraphale inside his head.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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